


And then they were all morons

by ZeeCatfish



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Drabble Collection, Multi, Tumblr pairing request drabbles, everyone I write turns into an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeeCatfish/pseuds/ZeeCatfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles written for pairing requests on my <a href="http://zeecatfish.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. TW: Red

**Author's Note:**

> Request was for John/Kankri.

If John had to describe Kankri Vantas and everything he knew about him in one word, he would use the word ‘red’.  


  
Even their first meeting stood out as a red flag against the blue and black of the LOWAS dungeon lobby, sparsely populated as it had been during Sburb’s closed beta testing phase. He’d been trying to get a group together, with the rest of his usual merry band-of-four doing non-internet things (ridiculous though the notion might be), when suddenly a lone racist slur from some jackass playing a stupidly unbalanced tank that nobody wanted on their team invited a phenomenon that would later become known as ‘the red miles’, named after one of the deadliest enemy attacks in the game.  
  
Paragraphs upon paragraphs of retina-searing red text had flooded the general chat, speeding by so fast there was no way, John had foolishly told himself, that this was not some pre-prepared trolling lecture. The wall of text was, ironically, missing any kind of red thread or red herring, more focused on shoving as many buzzwords and trigger warnings down people’s throats than actually making any kind of coherent point to the extent that even after reading the entire thing twice, John wasn’t actually sure what any of it was about.  
  
He’d been so impressed by the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing that he’d promptly invited the new player to come along with him, never even mind that having a healer a good twenty levels lower than him tagging along would only cause him trouble and that approximately everyone else in the entire game avoided teaming up with him whenever he took Kankri along for anything. Three months later the two of them pairing up for quests had snuck around the corner and become a ‘thing’.  
  
There was something magical about watching Kankri play the unwanted red knight to the unknowingly ignorant player caught red-handed saying something dumb enough to warrant them being subjected to the raging red miles of pseudo-patient tailchasing lectures that would leave his poor so-dubbed ‘students’ either red-cheeked in shame ready to droop off or seeing red with anger but unable to get a word in edgewise while the red letters kept rolling.  
  
Kankri was the kind of person who took offense to everything, and John was the kind of person who took especially much pleasure in offending, but somehow their partnership managed to stick. John was there when Kankri’s frantic, rapid-speed typing managed to bust up his ‘b’ and ‘o’ keys, when the sgrub and sburb beta servers crashed so badly most of the data on it was corrupted and Kankri’s character was amongst the losses and when Kankri’s little brother discovered the internet, and the less than savory expansions of his vocabulary that came with that development. In turn, Kankri had vaguely attempted to be less involuntarily offensive when John hit a rough patch with his dad. Which was probably enough to make them friends.  
  
Then John ran into a very short, very angry preteen he recognised by vocal volume alone, and suddenly the safety net of distance was uprooted herrings and all, and suddenly things had gotten tense under the weight of a possible meeting looming over their heads. What if they’d already met, known each other all along? It’d taken him a while to convince Kankri to let go of his strict internet rules and agree to meet up with him, just a few streets away from his school just to clear the tension from the air.  
  
But when John walked into the cafe they agreed to use as their meeting spot and immediately caught sight of a red dot in a blue-tinted room, a single dude with carrot-red hair, a face-full of freckles and the most hideously bright red sweater he’d ever seen, he got the sudden feeling everything was going to be just fine.  
  
With a resolute grin he walked over to the table, shook Kankri’s hand buzz-ring first and sat back to let the red miles wash over him. When the server came to ask if they wanted anything to drink, he ordered tomato juice.  
  
Kankri got offended.


	2. Cold Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second request was Erisol, which is not my usual working area, but it's nice to try and write out of my normal clique for a bit.

“Sol, if you don’t get your gnarled fuckin’ icicle paws off a’ my shins right this instant I will rip them off and feed them to that sorry abomination you’ve got the nuts to deign with the title a’ turtle,” Eridan’s muffled voice grumbled from beneath the plush, hot pink pillow he’d stuffed his head under, apparently not as asleep as Sollux had been silently hoping he would be. 

“Oh I’m sorry,” he responded, curling closer into the warm nest Eridan had been occupying and subsequently conveniently pre-heating for the past two hours, trying to ignore the nagging headache that was building in between his temples now that the caffeine rush that had helped him get through his workload was crashing and burning and making him want to throw things at the wall. Preferably fragile things. “I must have missed the obligatory feet warming required sign prohibiting cold-feeted individuals like myself from entering the bed. Oh well, to late now, what can you do?” 

“‘Cold-feeted individualth’ can vacate the fuckin’ premises to do the fucking courteous thin’ and not try to infect others with their insufferable insomiac tendencies by rammin’ their goddamn fucking frostbite popsicle toes into said other people’s warm, comfortable sleepin’ space. And while they’re at it they can go and take a midnight shower because you smell like garbage dump, jesus fuckin’ buttfuck, since when did programming involve dumpster divin’ in the process?” 

Instead of bothering with a response, Sollux plucked the pillow off of Eridan’s head to prop it under his own and wrapped his (still cold) arms around his boyfriend, who was giving him the most murderous of glares. “I hate you,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-factual but failing and sounding all the more like a five-years-old with a grudge. “Give me back my pillow, you caffeine-jacked gnu.” 

After settling himself comfortably on the pillow, which was very soft despite it’s hideous colour, and smelled like Eridan’s exotic shampoo, he leaned in to give Eridan a soft kiss on the mouth only to get pushed off. “I was /not/ kiddin’ you sack of honey-eyed knickerhedgehogs, you smell like a garbage truck, get out.” 

“Nope,” Sollux told him bluntly, pulling the blankets closer around him. “I’m not moving. Love you too. Night.” 

He fell asleep to the sound of Eridan’s muttered curses and his tossing and turning, clutching the pillow to his face tightly throughout Eridan’s liberation attempts. By the time Eridan left the bed to light a candle under a small bowl of lavender-scented oil he was already fast asleep.


	3. By the Neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request was for Dirquiussprite. This might very easily be the strangest thing I've ever written.

There is something highly irregular about the way death feels afterwards, especially when it’s not just your own death you’re remembering, but also your own.

No, that’s not right. It’s the mi%ture of decapitation and strangulation that is throwing you off, that doesn’t match the logistics, and you’ve never been quite in tune enough with anyone but yourself to notice there’s something in your head that isn’t e%plicitly, well, you. Not right away, at least. Goodness.

More accurately put, you’re so used to managing multiple selves at once, (which is a f001ish thought because really, you’re NOT, and you’re not really sure where these thoughts are coming from) that it takes a moment for you to realise that there might actually presently be less than one of you present. 

Again, this notion strikes you as especially frivo100s, considering the the only people you’ve known to possess more than one self at a time are both in a position where they can manage time itself, and do not seem especially concerned with managing multiple iterations of themselves, which would probably be a thing that would not be proactive to linear continuity or the stability of timelines. None of them ever seemed to consider themselves overly fra%ured, which says a fair deal as one of them spent a significant amount of time dead.

It seems you are getting genuinely upset by technical aspects that you should have no reason to doubt, considering past events have already proven said technical aspects to be entirely true. It also seems that the upsetting factor in this equation is, in fact, yourself, which might understandably be an upsetting factor in the sense that there is very little sense in the entire prospect and you have never been one for appreciating the insensible. 

You think you might require a towel.

You disagree. While this is certainly very distressing in it’s own right, such an action w001d be entirely pointless considering you did not perform anything e%tensively physically taxing enough to require anything to do away with any unwarranted moisture. Why your mind immediately went to sweat you’ll never know. This is because you have a sweating problem. You do not. Fuck. Fiddlesti%, Please cease the profanity, self.

Perhaps it w001d be for the best to focus on something more productive, like creating a robot upon which to inflict mortal trauma. This does seem like an e%elent idea. Perhaps in the shape of the Highb100d, who murdered Nepeta. You do not know what you are talking about. You genuinely do not know what you are talking about. You remember, but you do not understand. This is all very confusing.

You are standing in front of you. This is also confusing. You can only assume that this means your strategy, the one involving your head and the teleportation device, was successful, as the you in front of you seems entirely intact. This situation is involving entirely too many yous, and you’re not sure you can manage to keep track of which you is you anymore.

Behind you, the you that is /not/ you that is, is your friendly clown guide. You get a sudden urge to punch something, preferably your friendly clown guide, who is looking entirely too friendly for his own good, with those three long gashes running down his face. You wonder if punching him would make you feel better. The finite but e%pansive grasp of the mechanics of parado% space your new form has given you access to to better comprehend and in turn allow the you in your charge to comprehend the intricacies of the Medium and all that entails allows you access to the knowledge that punching Gamzee would not help anyone, as he would merely survive and move on to be someone else’s friendly clown guide by merit of being a clown. This does not tell you anything.

You are a sprite.

Fiddlesti%.


	4. Nothing but Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request was for Kurloz/Karkat. This was an interesting one. Took me a while to figure out what direction to go with.

There was something incredibly distressing about seeing the tranquil mirror image of your missing asshole clown moirail staring you down with a blank, vague smile and glassy, inexplicably dead eyes that betrayed even less than what seemed to be the norm on how much emotion creepy white ganderbulbs could hold.

When you first noticed him the resemblance almost tricked you into freaking out and running up to him to do something embarrassing and gross like hug him, but once you noticed the calm disposition and the generally wrong facepaint you quickly changed your course of action into quietly freaking out within the confines of your own thinkpan. 

Stitched-up lips quirked upwards, like face-painted asshole number two knew something you didn’t, and then he raised one hand, making a quick sign that might as well have meant there was a shitflinging crawlbeast with a two-sided woodchopping device standing behind you for all that you could understand it. When you opened up your mouth to tell him this he just lifted a single finger, a quiet shooshing gesture he had absolutely no right to use on you.

He gestured something again, apparently not yet aware of the fact that no, you really don’t speak finger gymnastics and clownfacetwitch. Then he curled his fingers up, an obvious non-verbal ‘come here’ that would not have been creepy in the slightest if it hadn’t come from a face-paint wearing clown-cultist from the former troll dystiopia from hell. 

You might have been less apprehensive to follow up any suggestion of his if you actually understood a word of whatever it was he was trying to convey, and possibly if he stopped smiling, because while smiling clowns are not necessarily murderclowns they are still irritating clowns that are not the clown you are looking for. So instead of moving you just stood around, like a total dipshit looking for recognition in your run for the title ‘biggest asshat in paradox space’.

At least, all potential for dipshittery behaviour aside, that was entirely what you were intending to do. You were intending to stand around like an asshat, and as such not move towards any mute clowns with questionable intentions with an unnaturally chipper skip in your step. Incidentally, you were moving towards a mute clown with questionable intentions, with an unnaturally chipper skip in your step.

There was a vague, blue-purple haze over everything, and your body was doing things you were distinctly aware you did not tell it to do, and you really, really hated clowns just then. What, you wondered, would happen if your own dreambubble apparition thing were to mysteriously meet its end. Mysteriously, through clown things.

By the time you reached Kurloz, who was just as awkwardly tall as Gamzee was, you were beginning to work up a nice, mental frenzy. This was familliar. Panicking was something you were good at, you should draw comfort from the familiarity or something. It was also completely terrifying.

Your-body-but-not-you raised his hands, and the mute mimeclown pushed something in them, after which your fingers folded around it neatly with a precision you were not used to from yourself. You’d never really focused on finger things before. Then he bent down, and pressed a cold, grease-paint stained kiss to your lips, and before you could even register exactly how weird stitches felt against your skin and holy fucking shit you were just kissed by a guy who hadn’t brushed his gnawers in an eternity he flicked your forehead with his fingers and you woke up on the horn pile, clutching a purple package with a tag with your missing-rail’s name on it.

You really hated clowns.


	5. In the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request was Kankri/Cronus. I don't think it's physically possible for me to not write Cronus as an asshole, much though I love the guy. Then again, everyone I write magically turns into an asshole a few seconds in, so I guess that's okay.

They’re sitting underneath an old cedar tree, huddled up together as they wait for the rain to pass. The ground below them is wet and damp and uncomfortable, and even old as the tree is, the level of protection it offers from the rain is not especially high, and yet Cronus can’t find himself to mind all that much, regardless of the massive cold he was probably well on his way to catching right about now.

In an unprecedented act of closeness he has Kankri, tiny, pretty, talkative Kankri wrapped into his arms, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from his body in stark contrast to the icy coldness the rain left behind, even through that ugly-ass sweater he insists on wearing far, far too often, and he wonders exactly how much shit he would get if he let his hands wander just the tiny bit lower.

If it had been anyone else he might have done it too. After all, what’s copping a feel next to magnanimously providing a bro with some bodily heat to prevent the both of you from dying from hypothermia or something like that. But Kankri’s ass is the one with a no hands allowed sign, and much as your fingers like exploring things, you’d really rather not lose the one person who actually listens to you sometimes, when he’s not too busy being offended by something.

Cronus is never quite sure why Kankri declared himself chaste, whether it’s just that he’s ace or if he’s actually serious about forcibly repressing his own urges for the rest of his life or however long he thinks he can actually keep it in his pants considering all of the babes the two of them hang out with on regular basis, and even though he knows he should be staying away he’s not quite as good at respecting any boundaries coming with the chastity vow deal as he should be, because Kankri is cute and pretty and seems to actually like him, and what else could a cat want?

A cat, it turns out, could want a whole lot of things without ever getting any, but he still can’t resist the temptation of pressing his face into Kankri’s neck, even if all that gets him is a face-full of uncomfortably damp red wool that itches and a new wave of complaints and a berating for touching him beyond the strict amount necessary for the purpose of sharing body heat, how he’ll forgive him because they’re friends but how he should always be sure to check someone’s exact boundaries in the future in case such semi-intimate touches could trigger someone and another hundred lines, all of which he’d heard before.

By the time the rain lets up his cigarette is soaked to the filter and clinging to his lips uncomfortably, kind of drooping near the end. Normally he can go with one for weeks, sturdy as they are when people never actually bother lighting them, but accidents happen and he’s pretty sure this is the last one in his package. He tries to busy himself with that instead of any errant disappointment when Kankri distangles himself from their little human pile, dusting himself off like it’ll change anything about the no doubt uncomfortable weight of his soaked sweater. 

Cronus wonders if he’ll return to the tree later, maybe try and relive this little moment that, without the context of an insider might have tricked an onlooker into making believe it was romantic. Then he shakes his head, and his little fantasy flickers out. He never was one for sentiment anyways. Jogging after his friend, he wonders to himself what colour panties Meenah is wearing tomorrow, and if he can think of any way to find out.


	6. Breathtaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Kurloz/Cronus, which turned a little darker than I was expecting it to, but then I don't really see much cutesy potential there in the first place. Heads up, this one is kind of violent compared to the others.

Imaginary daylight filtered through the imaginary window of the post-mortem copy of what he remembered his hive to look like after the ridiculous building shenanigans the game inflicted on what had once been a very cozy shipwreck and was now a shipwreck with a tower performing a balancing act on top of it. Cronus blinked slowly, warily peering out of his recuperacoon through a thick layer of imaginary sopor slime.

Even through the thick, sleepy haze clouding his thinkpan he could sense a strange, prominent feeling that something was wrong, more wrong than just the usual everyone you’ve ever known is dead and so are you thing, which you’d like to think you’ve sort of gotten over by now. 

He wasn’t an especially heavy sleeper, but waking up at daytime hours in a bubble that was usually courteous enough to his sleep schedule to at least pretend there was some kind of Beforan nocturnal schedule going on as long as he stayed inside of his hive was disorienting. Cronus tried to flip to a diurnal biological clock early on in his newfound resolve to become a human, but it left him strangely tired out all the time, lethargic in a way much like his current rude sneak-awakening made him feel. 

Upon first glance the block was empty, but the disquieting feeling of wrongness persisted strongly enough for Cronus to heave himself out of his recuperacoon, fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep as long as he didn’t make sure whether or not he was imagining things.

All of three steps out of the slime a hand suddenly closed around his still sopor-covered shoulder. Tense as he was he whirled around the moment he felt it, wound up like a string ready to snap, albeit a string covered in sleep-inducing goo, only to find himself face-to-face with a calm, serenely smiling Kurloz.

“What the hell, chief?” he breathed out, alongside with a breath of relief. “What are you doing here? If you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask, you know?” There was probably no reason to assume Kurloz had known about his preference to sleep in the buff, but now that they were in the position they were in anyways it never hurt to let him know about the options. 

Then, faster than Cronus could properly process he found himself flat on his back, with Kurloz standing over him, expression tranquil as ever but with an odd, ominous purple hue clouding over his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe a comment on how sudden this was, not that he was complaining about any potential black overtures he might or might not read into their current position, but he was cut off by Kurloz’s foot gingerly pressing down on his windpipe, cutting off enough of his air supply to make talking a too much effort kind of business.

The revelation that he might actually be in trouble dawned on Cronus with the cinematic kind of slowness that was only possible so shortly after waking, and he could feel whatever remnant of a grin he’d had before faltering, making place for something approaching genuine dread.

Kurloz snapped his fingers once, twice to make sure he had Cronus’ attention, then exaggeratedly pointed down at Cronus’ face, lightening the pressure on his throat slowly. There was an awkward silence for a moment while Cronus tried to figure out what was happening, but then he tentatively asked, “Me?”

Kurloz nodded once, before spreading his fingers and holding his palm out, a universal stop sign. “Stop,” Cronus croaked out, swallowing heavily to try and overcome the uncomfortably rough feeling in his throat.

The next mime was a childish talking sockpupethand, except without the sockpuppet. “Talking?” Cronus asked carefully, not sure where this was going. 

Then he got two fingers, middle and index. “Peace?” he guessed, gasping when the pressure on his throat intensified. “Two? Two fingers? Two of something? I don’t know, cat, ease off, I can’t breathe!” 

Kurloz did ease off, but only slightly, barely enough to let him get a good breath in, before pressing down again. “Argh fuck, I don’t know alright? Two, two someting, ah, ah I know ease off I know, Mituna. It’s Mituna right?”

Once again, Kurloz backed off slightly, dropping his hands to his sides and cocking his head expectantly. It took a few breaths for Cronus to manage and pierce the whole picture together. “Stop talking to Mituna, what? Not cool cat, telling others who not to talk t-ACK.” 

If the pressure on his neck had been painful before it was absolutely crushing now, and Cronus was too busy trying to gasp for air to even consider the bruise that this was undoubtedly going to leave. When the pressure let up again he let out a wheezed whine. “Alright, alright, you win Kurloz I get it, I’ll leave him alone, just get off of me already!”

And just like that Kurloz raised his foot again. Cronus was halfway expecting him to walk off without a second thought while he grasped for his neck, feeling the painful spot while taking deep gulps of air just to let his lungs refill. 

But instead, Kurloz sank down beside him, yet another unreadable smile plastered on his face. For a moment Cronus was worried he’d do something else to try and double murder him, but instead he only leaned forward to press their lips together in a short, chaste kiss that tasted like greasepaint and really terrible breath. After he pulled back he ruffled Cronus’ slime-soaked hair in a way that would almost have seemed affectionate if he hadn’t pulled at the roots the way he did before getting up and calmly walking out.

Cronus stared at the door dumbly. “What the hell just happened?”


End file.
